The Voss Coin

by A B Alexander

  That was Mai’s voice. What the fuck?

  Kevin shot up to a seated position.

  Mai forcefully carried on riding him, “Fuck me,” she said softly, placing his hands on her perfectly round ass. It felt so smooth and firm, he could feel her bouncing on him. Her beautiful face contorted in passion and her exotic skin glistened with sweat. He pulled her ass down as she continued to ride him. Deep inside of her, he was lost in animal passion. “Oh, I can feel you cumming inside me, that’s fucking amazing,” she moaned loudly.

  He let out a beastly roar, leaned back on the pillow, and passed out.

  He awoke soaked in sweat, daylight streaming in through the wide-open curtains. He had a blistering headache that started in the middle of his forehead and radiated behind his eyes. He lay motionless, his mind flickering between his conversation with Lucy and the weird sex that followed. The bed looked perfectly neat. He was covered with the duvet up to his chest and the pillows next to him were in place. There was no sign of somebody else having been in the room with him last night. He shakily got up, naked body glistening with sweat, and hobbled into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.

  Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking mess.

  He popped two aspirins in his mouth, brushed his teeth, and had a long shower. He leaned against the shower wall, letting the water spray over his upper back and behind his head. He thought about Mai; nothing was impossible anymore. The memory of last night was so blurred, he was losing touch with reality. Since he landed in Tokyo he had not been himself. He would not let these guys fuck with his mind. His brain was his greatest asset and only true weapon. He would find a way to get to the truth. Years of coding had taught him that everything in life follows a certain logical pattern and if you crack the logic, you crack the code. These thoughts were his mind’s battle cry, and they rallied him emotionally.

  He stepped out of the shower and put a towel around his waist. He picked up the bedside telephone and dialed room service. “Hi, good morning. Please send up freshly squeezed orange juice, two eggs sunny side up, avocado toast, and bacon.”

  A good meal will make me sharp again.

  He headed to the closet and got dressed. By the time he was done, he heard a knock on the door.

  Great, perfect timing. I’m starving.

  He casually opened the front door. The two Yakuza men were back. This time the smaller Yakuza spoke. “Good to see that you’re ready. Your training begins today. Please come with us.” Kevin noticed he had a thick British accent.

  What are the odds of a Japanese organized crime member speaking fluent English like a Londoner?

  He followed the men out the door not thinking twice about breakfast; his appetite had faded the moment he saw their faces. What he feared most was losing his life. That would be a permanent outcome to a temporary problem. He would do everything to stay alive and find a way out.

  5

  Heart of A Lion

  The Yakuza men guided Kevin toward a white heavy-duty SUV parked directly in front of the hotel’s entrance. The same boyish Japanese driver greeted them, dressed in his usual pilot-style attire. Kevin couldn’t believe his eyes; this looked absolutely odd. He was going to be chauffeured around in a military-style truck. He was ushered into the back seat and noticed that the SUV was a Toyota Mega Cruiser. The interior was old with a really worn-in plastic dash that exuded a no-nonsense military attitude. He had seen very few of these over the years in Tokyo; this model went out of production in 2002. It was Toyota’s valiant attempt for its version of the Hummer H1, primarily designed for the Japanese self-defense force. In the army, it was used mainly for the transportation of infantry, mortars, and SAMS. Only a limited number was sold to Japanese civilians. The driver immediately started the SUV, and it roared to life. Kevin was once again flanked by both the Yakuza men, and they pulled out of the hotel driveway. He sensed that their attitude toward him had turned tense.

  The bruiser pulled out a set of hinged handcuffs and slapped them on Kevin’s trembling wrists. Although his hands were cuffed from the front, he was still left with very little hand and arm mobility since the hinged cuffs were much shorter than the standard police-grade cuffs. This was the first time in his life that he had experienced the forsaken pleasure of being handcuffed. He panicked and begged out loud, “Please, not so tight.”

  The bruiser glanced at his colleague, rolling his eyes. He slightly released the tension and said in a rudimentary fashion, “If you cool, I’m cool.”

  Kevin could still feel the cold steel biting into his wrists. He slowed his breathing to try to stay calm, every small movement tightened the cuffs’ iron grip. He glanced around the car to shift focus away from the pain in his hands. Dark blood stained the back of the driver’s seat. He could discern the resemblance of someone’s palm near the head rest, his eyes instinctively drawn to it. His limbs shivered as his mind spewed images of what brutal murder must’ve taken place exactly where he sat now. His mouth and lips became dry like sand paper, fear draining fluid from his body.

  The British Yakuza, noticing Kevin’s distress, pulled out a small water bottle from his briefcase. “Would you like some water?”

  Kevin nodded, unable to speak. He held Kevin’s head back and instructed, “Don’t move your hands, I’ll pour water directly into your mouth.”

  He gasped, cold water rushing down his throat. He took small sips and then turned his head away from the bottle, signaling that he was done.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Kevin repeatedly panted.

  The British Yakuza responded kindly, “I don’t know what you’ve done, but we’re all human.”

  Kevin was both surprised and frightened by his response, but he did well to disguise it. He just nodded appreciatively, bowed his head, and continued to stare at his cuffed wrists. He understood that he was on his way to some sort of punishment or judgement. His mind yearned for answers; panic and adrenaline spread through his body like wildfire. He gently probed the British Yakuza, “Please, sir, where’re you taking me?”

  The two Yakuza men both stared at him and began to argue heatedly in Japanese. The bruiser repeatedly pointed at him with aggressive hand gestures. Suddenly the British Yakuza shouted, “Yamero!” Their argument immediately stopped. He turned toward Kevin sympathetically. “You’ll find out soon enough exactly where you’re going. For now, we’ve a long drive of approximately seven hours. Would you like something to eat?”

  He shook his head in disappointment. Food was the last thing on his mind.

  The British Yakuza continued, “In order to make your journey more comfortable and for your safety, please take two or three deep breaths.” In a rapid motion he pulled out a red handkerchief from his right pocket and pressed it hard over Kevin’s nose and mouth. “Relax and take deep breaths,” he ordered him.

  Kevin’s first reaction was to resist at all costs. He shook his head violently from side to side and hysterically kicked the back of the driver’s seat. Despite his resistance, within seconds he began to feel lethargic and disorientated. His eyes narrowed on the crest that decorated the handkerchief as his head slumped against the headrest. He recognized it as the crest of the famous Samurai Naoe Kanetsugu, who was renowned for his judgement. In Japan, the handkerchief is a very popular private item mainly used for drying one’s hands or face and is called “hankachi.” Kevin was fully aware that the choice of handkerchief pattern was significant. The British Yakuza removed the handkerchief from his face and spoke softly in his ear. “Just relax, Mr. Voss. That smell of ether and the sweet taste in your mouth is just a small dose of Chloroform. Within a few minutes you’ll be sound asleep and I’ll top up your sedation for the entire journey. In any case, I’m no anesthesiologist, so it’s possible this initial dose may’ve been overestimated. I guess all that’s left to say is sweet dreams.”

  By this stage, Kevin’s eyes bobbed in his head, like bottle corks on water. Over the next few minutes, he saw flashes of the lush autumn g
reenery as they drove through the outskirts of Tokyo. The countryside roadway was speckled with trees displaying a magnificent canopy of leaves with an orangey hue and a light shade of yellow. He appreciated the beauty of his surroundings, took a few more deep breaths, and succumbed to a profound slumber.

  He awoke gasping for air, the sharp smell of ammonia wafting into his nostrils. He ripped his head away from the black handkerchief pressed against his face and began to vomit uncontrollably outside the SUV door. The vomit, a fluorescent green bile, came from within his gut. He fell on his knees in a muddy puddle, rain pattering his back and head, engulfed by a misty mountainous fog. The Yakuza men lifted him to his feet by either arm and offered him some water. He shivered from the cold; it was already late afternoon, and he was drenched from the rain. He drank ravenously from the bottle, soothing his parched mouth.

  “Yuu wolk faast nuw,” the bruiser ordered him. They dragged him by each arm through slushy mud and mountainous terrain for about 2 miles. He fell to the ground, unable to walk further. He was weak and nauseated from the sedative. He hadn’t eaten much in the last three days, and his energy levels were at rock bottom. The British Yakuza bent down and removed the handcuffs from Kevin’s wrists.

  “We’re almost there. You’ve done well. Here, chew this jelly, it’ll give you energy,” he encouraged him.

  The jelly tasted like caramelized sugar and he struggled to swallow it. It felt like razor blades in his throat. He remained on his knees staring in disbelief at his bruised and bleeding wrists. His hands, typically delicate and soft, were unrecognizable, and he felt like a caged animal.

  The British Yakuza urged him, “We must continue now, stand up.”

  Kevin dug deep emotionally, stood up groggily, and continued the mountainous trek. There was no beaten path, so the three men stepped over crumbling rocks and maneuvered between the giant pine trees. They crossed extremely steep and overgrown ridges, where beauty met danger. The crisply cold mountainous air, coupled with the jelly sugar bomb, strengthened his ability to walk unaided, and he felt blood rushing back to his face. They reached a seemingly vertical rock scramble that lasted three quarters of a mile. The route was obstructed by some massive boulders and going up, under, and over them was an all-limb effort. Even if he was at full strength, this hike was no Sunday stroll in the park; it was a feat of endurance.

  After thirty more minutes of arduous trekking, which seemed like hours, they reached a metal track with a tiny cable cart. The cart was completely rusted and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. It barely had space for one person to turn around, resembling a rusted high school locker more than a functional cable cart. It was completely enclosed with only a few small slits around head high. The British Yakuza motioned him to get in.

  “Please get inside the cart, we’ve reached our destination. You’ll continue alone. Don’t try to escape at any stage. We will find you even in the places the devil cannot.”

  Kevin climbed into the cart, which was already suspended around a half meter above the ground. The British Yakuza bolted the door shut and entered a small hut nearby which operated as a makeshift control room. The cart groaned to life, the ageing metal parts clanking against each other. He felt extremely claustrophobic, desperately pressing his face against the open slits. There was no space for him to move, and he panicked as the cart gradually climbed higher in the air. “I’m on the beach, enjoying the sunshine and the cool clear seawater,” he repeated out loud, attempting to calm himself with a tranquil alternate reality.

  The cart climbed above the mist just before the final rays of daylight were fading. He could clearly distinguish that he was deep within the Kii Peninsula, recognizing the peaceful wooded surroundings of the Wakayama prefecture located south of the cities Kyoto and Osaka. The cart continued its painfully slow ascent and within minutes he was surrounded by total darkness of the mountainous nightfall. He could only hear the sound of his panting and the rumbling of the cable cart.

  As long as I’m alive this will pass; every nightmare passes.

  The cart continued its ascent in complete darkness for around an hour. Eventually it abruptly ground to a halt, swaying wildly from side to side. He shivered from the icy, elevated air, his fingers scraping against the condensation on the interior of the cart door. He remained absolutely still, tuning his ears for any sound of motion. He heard nothing besides the rustling of the leaves as the wind whistled through the mountains.

  They’ll come for me soon, right?

  Time passed but he still heard and saw nothing. He was submerged in a sea of utter blackness. Lost in a black hole, without the ability to gauge time or comprehend location, he was bitterly cold, the ruthless wind piercing his wet clothing. The temperature was dropping fast and his body shook violently.

  Fuck, if someone doesn’t come soon I’m going to freeze to death. I need to get out of here now. He banged with all his might against the metal door of the cart, fearing that it would be his frozen final enclave. The door wouldn’t budge, like it was wielded shut or, more appropriately, frozen shut. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “I’m going to bloody freeze to death! Is somebody there? Anybody? Please!!”

  His screams were answered only by the horrid sound of his own echo bouncing off the neighboring cliffs. He slumped down, defeated. He gradually became apathetic, entering the first phase of hypothermia. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, fiercely battling the urge to just close his eyes and drift away. Most likely he would never see the light of day again unless he kept his eyes open.

  He thought about Lucy and the boys, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. He was the pillar in their family, a traditional patriarch. They relied upon him to lead the way in life, much like a pride of lions. He would not let his soul escape his body, he would focus his mind to transcend the physical pain. He kept his eyes open staring out into the vast blackness, where reality and time become meaningless. He repeated to himself out loud, “Heart of a lion, be brave.” He would not die quietly in the night. He lost all sense of time and was suddenly embraced by warmth as if he was resting next to a cozy fireplace. It alarmed him, he knew he was dying.

  The blackness was so engrossing that he was no longer sure whether he was dead or alive. He screamed out as loud as he could muster and waited for his echo, anything to show signs of life. Gradually, the utter blackness turned a lighter shade. At first, he thought it was because his eyes had adjusted to the prolonged blindness. Then he saw the first rays of sunlight peeking over the nearby mountaintops, realizing that he was about to witness the most spectacular daybreak.

  This dawn will either bring death or alter my mindset forever.

  Soothing streaks of sunlight peeked through the giant pine trees. He began to gradually lose consciousness, the sun warming his body. Exhaustion overpowered him. He closed his eyes and imagined Lucy’s blonde hair resting on his chest. He was in their marital bed, at peace. He envisioned waking up with her in the morning. Her smell and natural beauty, her silky-smooth skin when their legs and feet intertwined. It felt blissful, and he was home. He could hear the faint sound of a gong, but he kept his eyes closed, clinging to Lucy. The gong got louder and weaned him back to consciousness. He heard faint chanting and a steady drum beat. He pressed his ear against the slits, the sound growing gradually louder. Whoever they were, they were coming for him. He expected to feel afraid, but more than anything, he was relieved. He had stared death in the face, and if he was going to survive he needed to get out of the cart as quickly as possible. He screamed out, “Hello, is anybody there? Help me, please.”

  The drum beats continued unabated, swallowing the sound of his rasping voice.

  The dense morning mist started to clear, revealing the surrounding mountaintops that were hidden beneath foggy clouds. The sound of drum beats and the rural chanting created an eerily enchanted ambience. Kevin had visited the Kii Peninsula before to enjoy the peace of Japan’s spiritual heartland. It was filled with high mountain trails, serene
waterfalls, and sacred sites. On almost every business trip to Tokyo, he travelled to the region for two or three days to rejuvenate. It was his perfect place to brainstorm new ideas and clear emotional baggage. There were many sacred shrines tucked away in forested hills, and its relatively easy access made it a red-hot travel destination. Even some of the ancient pilgrimage routes once reserved only for emperors and samurai were now open to all modern-day wanderers. However, the rusted cable cart and the dense wilderness indicated to him that he was well off the travelled paths. He was in a remote area where few dared to go. The mixed hum of drums and chants grew louder, but it also lulled him into a trance-like state. His eyes closed involuntarily and he was once again with Lucy.

  6

  Utsukushii

  & the Dragon

  Kevin shuddered awake, his ailing body surrounded by a sea of orange garments. The drums and chants vibrated through his chest. This steady hum was the only sound cutting through the stillness of the morning. He felt weightless, suspended in space, body floating in mid-air and defying the laws of gravity. He slowly lifted his head to take note of his new orange world. He was being carried on a military stretcher by a group of around ten Buddhist monks, dressed in saffron robes. Kevin was familiar with the standard Buddhist garb; he had visited many temples in this region. What seemed odd to him was that instead of wearing the accustomed sandals, they were all barefoot trekking through particularly rough terrain.

  This procession was being led by a tall and gaunt elderly monk. His clean-shaven head was scarred at the back from ear to ear. He was chanting with a deep voice that seemed out of place for his demure stature. He had protruding cheekbones and tired dark eyes. The intonation of his chanting was varied and measured. It was slow at conversational pace and at other times, loud and more impassioned. Kevin rested his head on the stretcher and relaxed.